Heads or Tails
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: What happens when a Cambridge man meets and Oxford cow? Illya picked the wrong day to wear his favorite jacket. Warning - alcohol-induced punning ahead...


Illya Kuryakin paused and reached out as the world suddenly tilted to one side. In reality, he knew it was merely just him tipping, but it made him happy to think everyone else was having a similar problem. The thought made him laugh. He was in such a good mood. It didn't matter that he was miles from his rooming house. It didn't matter that his friends had left him with nothing more than a couple of pounds. All that mattered was that he was through with what had been the worst semester of his life.

"Let's go out and celebrate, Illya," his flat mate, Colin, suggested as he tossed Illya's jacket to him. "I'll take you out for a pint, as long as you promise not to get pissed." For the first time in what seemed his entire life, Illya didn't have to study. He didn't have to write anything. Hell, he didn't even have to remember anything… at least not for the immediate future. He did have an appointment with the Soviet embassy that he couldn't miss, but that was days from now. Until then, he was a free man.

"Humph, "Illya muttered, keeping his smile to himself. "You can't get properly drunk on British beer." It was a game they played over and over again.

Now, considering the way the world was heaving and hoeing, Illya decided you could get just as drunk of British beer as you could on Russian vodka, providing that there was enough of it.

They'd headed for The White Swan. They drank, played darts, drank, laughed, drank, ate something, and drank more. At the end, Illya couldn't even remember the proper spelling of his middle name, much less how to get home. They walked out of the pub just after time was called and had twisted and turned in an attempt to get home. At some point along the way, Illya lost track of Colin. So, he went off to find him. Finally, it was all too much for Illya and he propped himself up against a call box. It wasn't fair. All he wanted was to collapse into a boneless heap and go to sleep.

"You want a lift?" It had been nice of the guy to offer considering how thoroughly Illya had beaten him at snooker.

"That would be most app… appr… yes, thank you."

The man pointed him towards a car. "You are from the university?"

_"__Hinc lucem et pocula sacra__… I think." Illya frowned as he tried to remember. He got into the car and promptly fell asleep. No Kuryakin had ever passed out from drink in written time… however, napping was always allowed._

When Illya woke the next morning, he was in a heap by the side of the road. He felt no less drunk, but much more confused. He didn't know where he was. That's when he found a note stuffed into his pocket. _Have a nice walk home, sunshine!_

Illya remembered the man and the car, but not much else. The countryside seemed somewhat familiar, but that didn't mean anything. However, first things first - he managed to get his trousers open and empty his bladder without getting much on his shoes. He needed to keep them clean for his interview at the Embassy.

That accomplished, he tucked himself away, made sure he was properly buttoned up and struck out again. The sun was just starting to crest the distant tree line. Illya was certain someone would be along soon and he would hitch a ride.

The road beneath his feet was dusty and every time he took a step, little clouds puffed up. Illya found that very funny and laughed as he walked.

A post suddenly jumped up in front of him and he rammed into it, gasping in surprise at his painful stop.

"What the bloody hell," he grumbled and he looked up, squinting, to try and read it. When the letters stopped dancing, he blinked, shook his head and tried again. "Oxford? How the hell did I get to Oxford? I was in Cambridge last night… wasn't I?"

Illya was a Cambridge man and they were rivals of Oxford. He was glad he wasn't wearing his jacket or he'd never get a ride. At least he had his red windbreaker still on. His classmates had given it to him as a joke, but Illya had quickly fallen in love with the deep maroon color. He never really cared much about clothes, but he did love this coat.

Another half hour of staggering along the road made Illya realize this must be the least traveled road in England. The sun was beating down on his head and he was quickly feeling like crap. More than anything, he wanted to be in bed happily asleep.

Illya struck out across a paddock, struggling to keep from tripping over clumps of grass, rocks and other obstacles. Abruptly his foot came down into the center of a pile of soft brown cow manure and he made a face.

"Did you do this?" he shouted in Russian to a nearby cow. "Stupid cow, why can't you poop properly?" The cow watched as Illya took a step closer. "What kind of stupid cow are you, stupid cow?" The cow shook her head and Illya waved his arms. "Don't act stupid, stupid cow!

The cow stamped her foot. Illya stamped his back back at here. He waved his arms. "Go on, get out of here!" She stamped again and snorted. Angry, frustrated, and feeling very weary, Illya pulled off his jacket and waved it at her.

That always worked on the cows back in Russian, but apparently Oxford cows were cut from sterner stuff. The cow began to move, not away but towards Illya and with her head down.

Illya belatedly realized his mistake. Too late for apologies, Illya ran, heading for a tree. He made it with a second to spare. The cow bellowed and slammed into the tree. Illya clutched the wood and began to yell for help.

"I just happened to be making my way to classes that morning and heard someone calling for help." Alexander Waverly paused to suck on his pipe and then blew out a satisfying puff of smoke. "The bull, of course, was merely trying to protect his paddock from an interloper who had insisted upon waving a red jacket at it. Mr. Kuryakin discovered that Oxfords bulls were not any fonder of Cambridge lads than we were."

Illya worked to keep his face bland and a blush from his cheeks as his partner leaned forward and patted his knee. "Illya, I told you that jacket was trouble."

"I love that jacket," Illya muttered. "If it hadn't been for that jacket, I would never have met Mr. Waverly."

"So, tell me, Illya, what was going through your mind as you scaled that tree?" Napoleon poured himself another measure of brandy.

"I decided that bullfighters deserve all the respect they get in Spain. That bull certainly wanted to pin me to a wall. Besides, I don't think I was entirely in the wrong."

"You were standing in the middle of his field, waving a red jacket in his face and he was in the wrong? Illya, didn't they teach you about such things in Russia?"

"Of course, but I think it was the weather. It was very hot and humid for that time in England and the bull was grumpy." Illya dropped his head so Napoleon couldn't see his grin. "You can't blame me for him being… moody."

Napoleon choked on his brandy. "Moo –dy? Oh, Illya…"


End file.
